It was a scorching 98 degrees (yes, like my cousin's 90s boyband...) outside today. Shared a beautiful moment with an old man in the park. I needed somewhere to write my sister a quick letter before walking to the post office so went to a nearby park. The only shady benches were taken-- one at the south end of the park crowded by a group of teenagers and the other, by an old, homeless man that I see napping at said park every morning/afternoon (only because I can see the space from our balcony, peering over the tall cement fence).
I walked through the revolving gates of the park and sat on the nearest bench to the entrance/exit with only the slightest bit of relief from the sun. Although the heat of the wooded bench burned through my thin cotton pants, I knew it was the best option at that moment. The bench to my left harbored a frail man wearing/having nothing but a dhoti (a traditional male garment, somewhat of a long loin cloth). He was yelling something to me in Tamil that I obviously didn't understand. At first, I ignored him, continuing to listen to my ear buds and write under the beaming sun.
Seeing how uncomfortable I was, trying to rearrange my legs in a way that allowed the least amount of butt cheek to touch the surface of the seat, he yelled again. I then made out that he was telling me to come sit in the shade. I quickly joined him as a cool breeze reached and he offered me a tattered rice bag he sat upon as he moved to the ground. I said "No, no. Sit here!" motioning him to come back to his seat on the bench but he politely refused. He sat somberly and watched me write.
People (especially natives) often ask me why I would come to place less glamorous than my own home... my answer revolves around selfless, kind-hearted people like this man. He did not have any intention or motive in sharing his seat. He had no reason (other than maybe to stare) to give up his seat but chose to anyway. And that is just the nature of many of my Indian brothers and sisters.
Instantly I felt bad that I did not have much with me to share but I graciously offered my pani ("water") bottle, a hand full of tic tacs and all the change (15 rupees?) in my bag. We parted in a gentle namaste.
I walked through the revolving gates of the park and sat on the nearest bench to the entrance/exit with only the slightest bit of relief from the sun. Although the heat of the wooded bench burned through my thin cotton pants, I knew it was the best option at that moment. The bench to my left harbored a frail man wearing/having nothing but a dhoti (a traditional male garment, somewhat of a long loin cloth). He was yelling something to me in Tamil that I obviously didn't understand. At first, I ignored him, continuing to listen to my ear buds and write under the beaming sun.
Seeing how uncomfortable I was, trying to rearrange my legs in a way that allowed the least amount of butt cheek to touch the surface of the seat, he yelled again. I then made out that he was telling me to come sit in the shade. I quickly joined him as a cool breeze reached and he offered me a tattered rice bag he sat upon as he moved to the ground. I said "No, no. Sit here!" motioning him to come back to his seat on the bench but he politely refused. He sat somberly and watched me write.
People (especially natives) often ask me why I would come to place less glamorous than my own home... my answer revolves around selfless, kind-hearted people like this man. He did not have any intention or motive in sharing his seat. He had no reason (other than maybe to stare) to give up his seat but chose to anyway. And that is just the nature of many of my Indian brothers and sisters.
Instantly I felt bad that I did not have much with me to share but I graciously offered my pani ("water") bottle, a hand full of tic tacs and all the change (15 rupees?) in my bag. We parted in a gentle namaste.
